


metamorphosis

by wolfinglet



Series: natural phenomena [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Begging, Bloodplay, Brainwashing, Breaking, Breeding, Dehumanization, Dubious Consent, Finger Sucking, Gore, Human Livestock, M/M, Masochism, Medical Experimentation, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Objectification, Rape/Non-con Elements, Strangulation, Torture, Training, test subject AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 06:04:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2497277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfinglet/pseuds/wolfinglet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erica taps her nails on Derek’s office door. "Something's different about twenty-four."</p><p>Derek frowns. Twenty-four is notoriously regular in his responses to his training and his tests. It’s part of what makes him so easy to strip down. </p><p>And that’s part of what makes him Derek’s favorite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	metamorphosis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oldmanrenkas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldmanrenkas/gifts).



> This is for Renqa, because it was all her idea.
> 
> Please, please heed the tags on this fic!

Erica taps her nails on Derek’s office door. “Something's different about twenty-four,” she says. There's a mix of interest and unsettlement in her voice that’s unusual for her. And, of course, it’s twenty-four, so Derek looks up from where he’s making neat rows of X’s on his tablet and gives Erica his full attention. 

She’s been his assistant for three years, so she knows what the look on his face means, and she expands without being prompted. “Yesterday we put him through Trial Sixteen--” dousing him in cold water and touching him with hands covered in heated gloves “--and per the last six months of his reactions, he should’ve been begging his way out an hour in. But he didn’t.”

Derek frowns. Twenty-four is notoriously regular in his responses to his training and his tests. It’s part of what makes him so easy to strip down. 

And that’s part of what makes him Derek’s favorite.

“Come in,” he says to Erica. She does, closing the door behind her. Derek motions to her tablet. “You have video?”

She flips it around to show him. The recording is slightly blurry, but it’s obvious it’s twenty-four, his lithe, lean body stretched out on the concrete floor, his slim wrists and ankles anchored down with thick leather straps. The subject identification tattoo on the inside of his elbow stand out on the expanse of his skin. 

Derek touches the sound, turns it up, and listens as the testmaker tells twenty-four all he has to do is ask like a good boy and it will end. Obviously it won’t, and obviously everyone participating knows that, twenty-four included, but twenty-four nods, his pretty mouth opening, and--

He doesn’t say anything. He stares above him and waits.

The sudden rush of cold water makes him arch off the floor. The room quickly floods with water: six inches, then a foot, chilled so thoroughly there are miniscule floes of ice in it. Twenty-four gasps in pained breaths, chest heaving as he struggles to keep his mouth above the water line. Derek leans forward, closer, helplessly drawn, waiting for twenty-four’s familiar gorgeous, agonized screams, but they never come. 

Oh, make no mistake, he _does_ scream.

But it’s not in agony.

“Please!” he shouts, voice crackling through the tablet’s tinny speakers. He thrashes in his bonds; his cock is hard against his belly. “Please, god, please, please, _yes_ , please—” The water starts to drain and he moans unhappily, tossing his head back and forth. His hair, grown out for better gripping, is plastered to his forehead. “No, no, please! Please let me, I want--I want, I want.” He dissolves into sobs and goes limp, shuddering on the floor. 

He doesn’t open his eyes until the three testers come in with their gloves on. Then he’s bucking again, cold-shrunk cock swelling back to pink fullness, and he’s pleading for them to touch him. When they lay their hands on his sides and his belly and his thighs and his throat, scalding him, he moans and comes, his dazed eyes wide and his mouth open. Derek isn’t surprised when one of the testers takes his gloves off and opens his pants to feed his cock into twenty-four’s throat. 

The choked, thankful noise twenty-four makes at that almost has Derek coming in his fucking work slacks.

He sits back, breathing heavily. Erica has to smell his arousal; the fact that she has the intuition to ignore it is why she’s been Derek’s assistant for so long. “Yeah,” is what she says instead. “And they put him through a hanging trial this morning. Almost choked him unconscious.” She also ignores the way Derek’s eyes flash at that. “All he wanted when he got down was for someone to keep using his throat. Kept telling them he’s there to be a cocksleeve. And he _meant_ it.”

Derek nods. Twenty-four’s heartbeat didn’t come through on the recordings, but the sheer desperation in his voice was not his usual. 

Have they truly broken him? At last? His sweet will has been an endless source of joy in Derek’s job. His determination, his intelligence, his resilience . . . those characteristics are what Hale Enterprises has always looked for in their breeding stock. Twenty-four is top of the line, and if they’ve managed to push him into breaking through some wall, some subconscious barrier, and turned him permanently into the creature in the video . . .

Derek needs to see it for himself. Immediately.

“Where is he now?”

“In prep,” Erica says. She tucks her tablet under her arm and straightens. “He’s scheduled for a routine bleeding trial in twenty minutes. Should I cancel that, or--”

“No, that’s good. I’ll observe.” If twenty-four is faking or trying to make himself accept his place despite not believing, not really giving in, then a bleeding test will show it.

Derek reaches for his lab coat, slips it over his shoulders. He should be finishing his work--he’s marking off members of their newest breeding shipment who aren’t fit to manufacture the first-class products the Hale name is known for--but, as always, getting to watch twenty-four is enough of a carrot for him to take heat from Laura for being late.

Erica locks his office for him and heads off in the opposite direction, hopefully to make his excuses to Laura. 

The operating rooms are on a sublevel, where everything is cold and white and sterile. Derek forgoes the observation deck in favor of walking directly into the OR. Boyd is the operating surgeon, and he nods at Derek, used to this by now. Derek scrubs his hands, sterility being the sole precaution they take for their subjects’ comfort. Boyd does offer him a surgical mask, to keep twenty-four’s blood from getting in his mouth, but Derek is hungry today, a kind of hunger he can’t define, so he shakes his head.

Twenty-four is strapped naked to the cold metal table, spread-eagle with his arms bound and sacrificial. Crucifixion-style is the actual term, Derek thinks, but he prefers sacrifice, especially with the rich dark marks around twenty-four’s throat from his earlier strangulation. His eyes are bloodshot, too, when he opens them and looks at Derek.

He smiles. “Dr. Hale.”

“Twenty-four,” Derek says. His voice is as cool and detached as always, an effort to maintain, but twenty-four strains toward him anyway, opening his mouth. Derek blinks, amazed, then obliges and gives him two fingers to suckle on. Every other time, it’s taken until after the test, when twenty-four knows he’ll be rewarded, for him to offer his mouth to Derek. Derek strokes his tongue, praising him for his lack of contrariness. “Good boy.” 

Twenty-four shudders. Moans. His damaged throat flexes as he sucks harder.

There are no IVs hooked up to him, but there is a stand and packs of blood on standby, waiting for the last moment before his body gives out. 

_We have to test you the hardest_ , Derek wants to tell him sometimes. He wants to tell him right here, as twenty-four is sliding his tongue between his fingers, eyes closed in obedient bliss. _We have to test you the hardest because you’re perfect._ The perfect product. He’ll be such a virile stud when they’re done with him, ready to do what he was born for. 

He could do it now, Derek supposes. All it would take is one signature from Derek to move him from testing stock to the breeding floor. 

All it would take is one signature and Derek wouldn’t get to play with him so much. Someday, he’ll sign. Someday, when having his hands tangled in twenty-four’s nerves, manipulating him, molding him, isn’t so satisfying.

Someday.

“We’re ready,” Boyd says.

Derek removes his fingers from twenty-four’s mouth so he won’t get them bitten off when Boyd cuts into him. 

Now, Derek thinks. Now twenty-four will beg for it to stop. Now, when Boyd touches the scalpel to his white skin and blood blooms, he will bring back that spark of defiance, that faint sarcasm they’ve worked so long to beat out of him. Now, Derek thinks, twenty-four will disappoint him.

Now, Derek thinks, as twenty-four presses his hips up into the blade and his pupils go so wide they swallow his irises. “Yes,” twenty-four gasps. “God, fuck, _yes_. Yes.” He arches his back, offering the wide expanse of his chest, and those swallowed eyes find Derek’s. “Cut me,” he begs. “Doc--Derek. Cut me. Cut me, please, I want you to.”

Derek stops breathing.

Boyd raises his eyebrows over his mask. Derek swallows and nods, and Boyd’s assistant Isaac offers Derek a tray of scalpels. Derek takes one with an unsteady hand and leans over twenty-four, who grins, wide and genuine, as his heartbeat picks up and his dick smears precome all over his pale belly. Derek presses the scalpel over his chest and cuts, and cuts, and cuts. 

His marks are shallow, decorative, just so he can see twenty-four cat up into each one like a needy slut. Sexual tests are as commonplace as pain trials, so Derek has seen all this before. Just . . . not like this. It’s like the line has blurred in twenty-four’s mind between pleasure and pain, like it’s all the same now, and he doesn’t care so long as he gets to perform.

He really is perfect.

Boyd continues the real work down on twenty-four’s thighs, and soon the table is flooded with his fresh, hot blood. It smells so much of him, of his insides, his essence, and suddenly, viscerally, Derek wants to be here next time they do an abdominal operation, so he can have his hand in him, tucked around the most vital pieces of him.

Twenty-four loses blood and coherence fast, but he still rubs up into Derek’s blood-tacky hand when Derek closes it around his cock. Still holds his mouth open. As he slips into deliriousness, Derek cutting him absently with tallies to count the sounds he makes, he starts mumbling to himself. 

“I’m a good boy,” he says, staring half-lidded up at the ceiling. His blood splatters in slow gushes on the floor. Behind Boyd, Isaac is readying the transfusion that will save his life. “I’m a good boy. I’m a good boy. I’m a good boy.”

“Yes,” Derek says, slicking his thumb over the head of twenty-four’s dick. “You are.”

Twenty-four breathes, “Oh,” and comes into Derek’s hand, mindless and used and so, so broken, so far gone. He’s changed--he’s _different_ , as Erica said. He’s given in, been transformed. Has accepted what he is. Just a thing. 

Derek’s favorite thing.


End file.
